Page 25 of From Paris, with Butter
“It’s not that brilliant,” I said, shrugging. “My mother used to be a pastry chef. She created these amazing recipes that combined French pastry techniques with desserts of all the exotic places she visited. She had one for a tarte tatin with figs and rosewater that people went crazy for.”
“Well, I’m just glad you saved all the gala’s guests from double-fisting Beaujolais and mint tea the entire night.”
“I should probably take this out now,” he added, picking up the trash bag (which did indeed have a pizza box sticking out of the top). “Thank you for the bread, Margot. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
As though I was going to do anything other than sit on my couch and run through this conversation in my head a thousand times.
Chapter 11
“He’s coming over fordinner?” Colette squealed. It was the evening after I’d run into Laurent and had my entire worldview thrown into disorder.
“Is it a date?” Yasmine asked.
“Just a platonic, neighborly meal,” I said.
Eyerolls all around, which I chose to ignore.
“Did he seem like he was flirting?” Yasmine pressed.
“I don’t think so?”
“But he said he wanted to have dinner with you. And he baked you a quiche,” Colette said firmly, as though that settled things.
“He bakedaquiche and gave Margot a slice,” Luc corrected.
“But still, to have dinner at someone’s house, that’s no small thing,” Colette insisted.
“Did you kiss? Hug? Shake hands?” Yasmine asked.
“No. He was, well, holding a bag of trash.”
This stumped even Colette, and there was a moment of fraught silence. I wasn’t even sure what to think myself. Laurent Roche was, despite his apologies, still a snobbish grump. He wasn’t a good dating prospect, even if he had a cute cat and looked like a catalog model (Yasmine’s opinion, not mine).
“In any case, it doesn’t matter if it’s a date right now,” Paul said, speaking up from where he sat in the corner, sorting through newly-arrived shipments of wine. “Anything canbecomea date, even if it doesn’t start as one. The question we should be discussing is: what is Margot going to cook?”
This sent everyone into a flurry of suggestions, but before I had any time to consider them, the elevator dinged and it was time to get to work.
It was the first day of Chef La Croix’s fall menu, and menu switch days were always chaotic. We had to learn all the details about the new courses to relay to guests, the kitchens had to get the timing of them just right so no diner had too long of a gap between courses, and sometimes, even when we did everything right, a guest had a meltdown because they were expecting last season’s menu, even though Le Jules Verne made this information very,veryclear.
I pushed any thought of Laurent out of my mind and stepped into the dining rooms feeling like a soldier heading into battle.
But, tonight at least, every diner at Le Jules Verne seemed pleased with the menu. As they should be. I’d tried it myself weeks ago, when the kitchens had been doing a test run, and every course had been perfection.
As the evening wore on, the other servers whispered suggestions of what I could make Laurent each time we passed each other.
“Broiled swordfish,” Colette said, balancing a platter of empty wine glasses. “Easy, but impressive.”
“Absolutely do not serve a man fish on the first date,” Luc said, passing in the opposite direction. “The main course should be roast chicken.”
“No chicken, no fish,” Yasmine said later, carrying out a pair of chocolate mousses. “A sophisticated chef will only appreciate red meat. And don’t try making any Provençal specialties,” she added, stepping aside as the kitchen door swung open and Colette blazed in, looking harassed. “You’ll never be able to make them as well as his mother.”
As the evening progressed, the suggestions kept on coming.
Duck confit.
The scallops with a citrus reduction that had been a standout from last year’s summer menu.
Baked Camembert.
